Confession

by Carey Baldwin

  Torpedo hocked another gem into the detective’s coffee.

  “Give it a rest, will you?” Luke pointed a finger at the phlegmatic attorney. “Save your antics for the courtroom.” Then he jerked his chin at Johnson. “Torpedo’s sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

  Torpedo made an aw-­shucks face.

  Luke arched a brow. “For real, Haynes. This is no game. My brother’s life is at stake here, and I’m sure the good detective is doing the best he can to get to the truth. Aren’t you, Johnson?”

  Johnson crossed his arms high on his chest and looked from Luke to Haynes and back to Luke again. “You can’t good cop bad cop a cop. Let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

  “Absolutely. But the fact is, my brother’s been charged with a string of murders whose only common denominator is a rosary left on the victims’ bodies.”

  Johnson pushed his ruined coffee aside. “And Dante Jericho’s confession. That ties the victims together, wouldn’t ya say?”

  Luke decided to concede the point because you can’t say you’re after the truth and then ignore whatever parts don’t suit you. “Okay, the rosaries and the confession of a man who’s clearly guilt-­ridden and mentally fragile.”

  “Big of you to admit that.” Johnson’s tone might’ve been sarcastic, but he stopped fiddling with his silverware and sat forward attentively, allowing Luke to finish.

  “Apart from the rosaries and a questionable confession no one can say what ties these victims together. And perhaps more importantly, there’s no physical evidence whatsoever to link my brother to the crimes. A victim found with a rosary—­killed while Dante remains in custody—­would obviously be important to my brother’s defense, if such a victim in fact exists. So yes, we are entitled to the information according to the law, which I believe you are sworn to uphold. Now, I can go through channels and get the information, or you can stop fucking around and just tell us what’s going on.” He turned his palms up. “Because quite frankly, Detective, Torpedo’s manners suck. I’d hate it if he spouted off unfairly to the press. I’d hate it even more if the good ­people of Santa Fe garnered the false impression that the police in general, and you in particular, are uncooperative and endangering the welfare of the community by refusing to follow up new leads on a serial killer.”

  “Nobody’s being uncooperative.” Johnson slapped the table with his palm, and his lower body jerked.

  “Now that’s assault.” Torpedo interjected. “You kicked me on purpose.”

  Johnson kept his eyes on Luke. “I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s nothing gonna do your brother any good.”

  Luke forced himself to breathe and refrained from saying he and Torpedo would be the judge of that. He didn’t want to give Johnson a reason not to trust him. He wanted to know what was going on, and he wanted to know now.

  Johnson moved his silverware, piece by piece back onto the napkin and off again. Scratched his day-­old whiskers. “You say you’re after truth. Well, so am I. So in a way, you and I got something in common, though it pains me to say I’m anything like an overprivileged dick like you.”

  “And it pains me to think I’m anything like an arrogant prick like you, so I guess we do have stuff in common.” Luke showed him his teeth.

  Johnson hunched his shoulders. “We got a fresh body. We got a rosary. But it’s not the Saint.”

  “You think it’s a copycat?” Luke asked.

  Torpedo smirked. “Here comes the old copycat excuse. These coppers never want to admit when they screw up and arrest an innocent man for murder.”

  Johnson bolted to his feet. “You fellows think you know what I’m about. You think I’d railroad Dante Jericho just to make a name for myself, get my fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I’d say that’s a fair assessment.” Torpedo shrugged.

  Then, apparently realizing Torpedo had him trapped in the booth, Johnson sat back down. “Well, you can both go to hell. Ever heard of the words protect and serve? Maybe those words sound corny to a slimeball lawyer like you. Or a rich asshole like you who never had to work a day in his life.” He favored Luke with a poisonous look.

  “I may be an asshole, but I do work,” Luke didn’t let his voice rise. He wasn’t being defensive, just stating the facts.

  “Fine, you work. But you never had to work. Not the same thing at all.”

  “Hey. Over here. Remember me?” Torpedo stuck his thumbs on his temples and wiggled his fingers. “I’m the slimeball lawyer who’s never lost a murder case.”

  “Which proves my point.” Johnson said through gritted teeth. “No way each and every one of your clients was innocent. Statistically speaking, that’s impossible, and that means you’ve put killers back on the streets—­the streets I’m trying to make safe for law-­abiding citizens. So question anything you want, but don’t question my motives. Ain’t a goddamn thing wrong with my motives, and they got nothing to do with fifteen fucking minutes of fame.”

  The temperature of Luke’s blood was rising in direct proportion to the amount of bickering between Torpedo and Johnson. Time to take things down a notch. “Okay. Nobody’s saying you’re a bad cop.”

  “Your mouthpiece just said exactly that.”

  Again, Torpedo nodded.

  Johnson straightened his spine and drew his shoulders back. “And then you practically ordered him to mouth off to the press with that bad-­manners comment.”

  “I’ll make sure Torpedo doesn’t impugn your reputation. You have my word on it.” Luke narrowed his eyes at his brother’s attorney and looked back at the detective. “Now, if you’d care to explain why you think this new victim is the work of a copycat, I’m all ears.”

  “I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a copycat. The MOs are too different. Sure, the rosary and hog-­tying is an obvious homage to the Saint, but nothing else fits.”

  “Hog-­tied, too?” Luke shuddered at the image that brought to mind.

  “Yeah. Sick, like the Saint. But each and every one of the prior victims had his or her skull blown apart with a shotgun. And the bodies were found still covered in blood. But not this poor fellow.”

  “You made an ID?”

  “We’re waiting for dental records. The unsub . . . who is definitely not the Saint, strangled his victim, then he scrubbed the body clean. If there was so much as a drop of blood on the man’s body, it’s gone now, along with his fingernails—­they were trimmed down to the nubs. The good news is we found trace this time.”

  “Trace?”

  “Yeah, nylon fibers. Guys at the crime lab think they’re from a toilet scrubber. No DNA, but its better than nothing.”

  “Just to be clear . . . there was a rosary.”

  Johnson raked a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

  “Then how can you discount that so early on? How can you be sure this isn’t another one of the Saint’s victims?”

  “Because the Saint is in custody. I’m sorry for you, Luke, and that’s not horseshit.” Johnson’s expression softened by a hair. “I know the family of a perpetrator hurts almost as much as the family of a victim. I want you to understand, I don’t lump you into the same category as your murdering brother. But I cannot make this new vic as one of the Saint’s. The Saint’s kills were too precise.”

  “You call a shotgun blast to the head precise?”

  “I call a murder precise when it happens the same way every time. The Saint is a cold-­blooded methodical monster who’s killing his victims in the bloodiest way possible. I will catch the son of a bitch who strangled this new guy, but no way in hell is he turning out to be the Santa Fe Saint. No way in hell this new corpse gets your brother off the hook.”

  Luke pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “I can’t dismiss the rosary connection so easily. It’s too powerful a message. I think it’s the Saint’s way of taking back credit for the murders.
He’s letting the world know the glory belongs to him. Same thing with the media texts he sent to Faith Clancy. Those pictures—­”

  “Those pictures could’ve been sent to her by anyone with an ax to grind.”

  “Who’d have an ax to grind with Faith?”

  “Anyone who thinks she’s coming down on the wrong side of the fence where your brother’s concerned. Her face has been plastered all over the local news as the doctor who was treating a heinous serial killer. It’s not easy to get crime-­scene photos, but it can be done.” He shook his head. “Off the record, the DA thinks you sent the photos to make it look like the Saint is still out there. Thinks you’re trying to draw heat away from your brother.”

  Luke rose on his haunches. “You son of a bitch. You believe I’d threaten a kid and a dog and terrify an innocent woman?”

  “So now Dr. Clancy’s innocent? A few weeks ago you thought she was a bitch for turning your brother in.” Johnson let out a breath. “But for what it’s worth, no. I think the DA’s wrong about you, Luke. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and while I may not like you, I don’t see you as the type to resort to terrorist tactics. My guess is the individual who sent those photos to Dr. Clancy is some pissed-­off vigilante. The same type as the guy who tossed a rock at your limo.” Johnson looked past Luke. “And by the way, the extra detail patrolling Clancy’s block is history. With no direct threat to her safety or to the little boy’s, the captain decided to reallocate those resources.”

  Luke came to his feet, gestured at Haynes. “I want twenty-­four/seven surveillance on Dr. Clancy and Tommy.”

  “I got it. I got it,” Torpedo sputtered at Luke, then put his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “Now then, Detective, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What about that other matter?”

  Johnson brushed Torpedo’s hand aside. “What other matter?”

  “Maybe you thought we wouldn’t find the report buried in all that crap the DA’s Office sent over.” Torpedo brought out a gotcha smile. “I’m talking about a goddamn eyewitness.”

  Wednesday, August 14, 3:30 P.M.

  Here Luke was again, proverbial hat in hand, when a phone call would’ve sufficed. But how could he regret his decision to come to Faith’s office when seeing her in the flesh made his blood pound and his heart soar? Pounding blood might be common enough, but a soaring heart was hardly a small thing, and especially under circumstances like these, shouldn’t be taken for granted.

  “Luke?”

  “Sorry, I guess I should’ve made an appointment.”

  Faith waved a come-­in. “No need. You’re not interrupting anything. I’m hardly in high demand. I’ve visited every primary-­care doctor in town, handing out my brochures. I’ve offered free consultations. Same-­day appointments.” A frustrated sigh stopped her words.

  Closing the door behind him, he entered, then circled her office. First time he’d been here. First time he’d seen this part of her life. His eyes closed as he drank in the scent—­her scent—­filling the small space. “It takes time to grow a new business, Faith, I’m sure psychiatry is no different.”

  “I’m sure being the doctor who treated the Santa Fe Saint isn’t attracting droves of patients to my door.” Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “No worries. I’m not offended.” What she said was true, and he had no problem with her telling the truth. Faith had acted exactly as she should’ve in regards to Dante. It was his brother’s own words that had created this mess—­not Faith’s actions.

  By now, he was the furthest thing from angry at her. Despite everything terrible that had happened, because of Faith, these past weeks had been a glorious jumble of color. There was the vibrant red of first attraction, followed by the deep black resentment over Dante, next came the cool blue of understanding, and now—­some mystifying color he couldn’t name. Couldn’t begin to replicate even if he had a full palette of paint and a brush in hand. Of course, his brother was the true artist. He was merely a gallery owner who appreciated but could not create beauty.

  “Luke?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. He’d come here for a reason hadn’t he? “There may be a witness in the Saint case.”

  Faith’s expression tightened as she waited for him to continue.

  “Four years ago, a kid in Amarillo, a friend of the Saint’s first victim, gave the police a description of a man he saw with his friend, Kenny Stoddard. The file’s gone to shit. There’s virtually nothing left of the witness’s statement, but Torpedo’s got his address.”

  “When do we leave?” If she’d given any thought to their encounter in the limo, you’d never know it by her demeanor now. But maybe that was only because this was her office, and she wanted to stay professional. He hadn’t expected her to fly into his arms or anything, but a little eyelash batting, maybe a coy smile would’ve been nice.

  “I need to take care of a few loose business ends, but I should be able to leave sometime tomorrow. I don’t mean to impose, but as a psychiatrist, you have certain, interpersonal skills that might be of use in interviewing a witness.”

  Seemingly pleased, she smiled. “Well, I hope I can be of help.”

  And besides, he wanted to be near her . . . all the time. He wasn’t sure how, but she’d snuck into his heart. Whenever he had a free thought, she appeared from nowhere. Her guileless face, her lush voice—­her fists, raised and ready to put up the fight of her life. He wanted this woman like he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time . . . maybe ever.

  “Luke?” This time he heard exasperation in her voice. She checked her watch. I’m happy you stopped by, but really, if you’re just going to stand there, I should prep for my patient. I have an appointment in half an hour.”

  “Sure. Like I said, I should’ve called. Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Call.” He cleared his throat. “All right if I call you tonight? To firm up the details and discuss strategy.”

  “Of course.” She opened and closed a drawer, twisted her wristwatch. “This trip . . . we’ll keep things strictly professional, right?”

  He could see her now in the backseat of his limo, dress hiked around her waist, thighs open, waiting for him. He groaned. Maybe aloud. “Yes, let’s keep things strictly professional. My thoughts exactly.”

  TWENTY-­TWO

  Wednesday, August 14, 4:00 P.M.

  The way Scourge’s shoulders hunched when he entered her office, the way his limbs seemed to drip at his sides, made Faith think he might simply melt into a puddle on her new, stain-­resistant carpeting. He walked as if his bones had been extracted, leaving nothing to pin his muscles and skin into the shape of a man. Both his whitened complexion and the guarded look in his hyperemic eyes warned that one wrong word from her might vaporize him altogether.

  Her shoulders tensed up around her ears. Blowing out a slow breath, she lowered them. Today, she must be especially gentle with Scourge, choose her path with the utmost caution ,or else she might send him off to Never-­Never Land. He’d hadn’t ever seemed quite this fragile before.

  “Shouldn’t there be a couch in here or something?” he muttered, eyeing the leather chair pulled near her desk.

  “This place isn’t for napping.” She got up, motioned for him to sit, then dragged an ottoman around for his feet.

  “But what about for dreaming?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.

  “Dreaming is allowed. In fact, it’s encouraged.” Faith squeezed his arm, then seated herself in her usual place behind her desk. Up close, the circles under his eyes seemed even darker than before—­so dark she could almost believe he’d painted them on. She tried to make eye contact but couldn’t. “Scourge, has something happened since our last therapy session?”

  His eyes darted frantically about her office. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Your call, of course, but since you’re
here to get better, you might want to reconsider.”

  “I’d like to talk about it. I need to talk about it, but . . . I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me, Dr. Clancy.”

  “That seems highly unlikely, but suppose I did become angry. Wouldn’t be the end of the world, now, would it?” She scooted closer to the edge of her chair.

  Confusion flitted across his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just saying it’s no big deal if I get angry with you. That’s just life. We’ll both get over it.”

  He blocked his gaze with his hand to keep her from reading his expression, leaving her wondering what generally happened in his world when someone got angry.

  Tugging a loose thread on his shirt, he shifted in his seat. He was dressed in long sleeves again, and again, she wondered what he was hiding underneath. Today, however, was not the day to inquire. She forced her gaze to the bookcase, hoping Scourge would find her less intimidating if she didn’t look directly at him. He needed breathing room, or more accurately, talking room.

  “You’re a very good doctor, and I should’ve listened to your advice. I’m truly sorry for disobeying you.”

  Disobeying her? She hadn’t a clue what he meant by that, and she wished he’d stop apologizing and get to the point. “Hmm.”

  “You remember we talked about that flooding therapy. I thought if I immersed myself in blood, I’d see there was nothing to fear, my adrenaline would eventually wear out, and I’d be cured of my hemophobia fast.”

  Her body canted forward, not liking where this was going. “We also talked about the fact that flooding would be too stressful to undertake at this point, that it might do more harm than good.”

  “I suppose you’ll think me hebetudinous then when I tell you what I’ve done.”